


The Poor and Unfortunate

by applejackcat



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Sexual Harassment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 01:12:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7664554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applejackcat/pseuds/applejackcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dire times have befallen the island of Avonlea, and as Reverend Frollo stands at his pulpit and demands to know whom in the congregation has caused their misery, a strange man with a stranger tail washes ashore. Merman!Nosty AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Poor souls with no one else to turn to

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ANG_the_nerd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANG_the_nerd/gifts).



> I've finally managed to post this to Archive of Our Own, and I want to thank ANG for her patience. Writing this was an absolute pleasure.

The fetid air in the church felt as stifling and oppressive as the missives Reverend Frollo spat from his pulpit. Frollo refused to open the tall windows of the nave even during the height of summer, when standing in a cool breeze felt like receiving the favor of the Lord. 

If the son of God could bear a cross through inhospitable Jerusalem, Frollo declared, enduring the jeers of a heathen crowd, then the least his flock could do was sit in solemn consideration in the muggy heat of the church.

“I will not lie to you,” Frollo said, his voice drawing tight the way it did before informing the congregation of their multitudinous shortcomings. “We are facing dire times indeed.”

A murmur of agreement rustled through the crowd as the most devoted of Frollo’s supporters offered their capitulation. Frollo, unlike his predecessor, the kindly but absent minded Reverend Thatch, inspired a devotion that bordered on sacrilegious. Men and women competed to see he could verbally flagellate themselves the loudest, the most obviously, in hopes of drawing his attention.

“The drought has prevented most of our crops from growing, and insects have decimated what little the Lord did allow to grow. Our island teeters on the brink of a ruin from which we cannot return.” Frollo paused and leaned forward, his grim, angular face adopting what could only be called a smile in the most abstract sense. “During times of hardship, I don’t ask myself how I will survive. I don’t ask myself how I will change my fate and turn the tide so that disaster is averted.

“Oh, no. What I do is ask myself what has been done to invoke the Lord’s wrath. What have I, what have you, done to anger our most holy Father and cause him to turn his back on this island?” Frollo glared down at the people filling the pews, his feckless batch of sinners, who now turned to their neighbors with accusation and condemnation in their eyes.

_Who, indeed? Who had sinned badly enough that they were now all condemned, the virtuous made as guilty as the heretics?_

“Who amongst us has worshipped false idols? Who has participated in unnatural fornication? Who has not given their hearts and souls completely over to the Lord?” Frollo closed his eyes, as if this contemplation wearied him far beyond what the average congregate could understand. When he opened them again, his expression, his gaze, seemed to burn with an otherworldly righteousness. “And then I ask myself an even more important question. The most important question of all.”

No one dared to draw breath, lest the quiet intake draw Frollo’s attention and, consequently, his denunciation.

Frollo pitched his voice so that his pronouncement rolled like a wave from the pulpit to the back of the church. “I ask myself what sacrifice must be made to earn the lord’s favor again.” 

* * *

The moment she stepped from the sweltering church into the fresh, salty daylight outside, Belle’s skin prickled as something clinging and unwelcome fell upon her: Reverend Frollo’s attention. She’d hoped that one of his sycophants would’ve distracted him and allowed her to escape back to town unnoticed. But more and more, with each passing day, Belle realized that Claude Frollo’s attentions were more pointed, more insidious, than the sort a man of God would naturally have for one of his congregants.

For a brief moment, Belle considered ignoring Frollo. Ruby and her grandmother had already paid their respects and begun the trek down the hill, back into the small hamlet of Avonlea. She could pretend she hadn’t noticed Frollo’s scrutiny and dash past the place where he’d stationed himself. She struck down the thought quickly, though.  

After Frollo’s sermon that morning, refusing to acknowledge him felt…not quite _dangerous_ , but ill advised.  

Slowly, Belle made her way to Frollo. She kept her eyes on the ground before her and hoped the reverend saw her downcast gaze as a sign of virtuous humility instead of the attempt it was to disguise her apprehension for him.

“Isabelle,” Frollo called when she drew near. “I’m glad to see that one person in the French family still heeds the word of God.”

Belle’s stomach clenched. She raised her head hurriedly. Mrs. Blue and Mrs. Gale flanked Frollo, and each wore expressions of smug judgment. “Papa hasn’t been well, lately,” Belle explained. “The journey up the hill has been too taxing on his joints.”

“The Lord rewards those who show due reverence,” Mrs. Blue said, her tone as pinched as the corners of her mouth. “Perhaps your father ought to make more of an effort.” Mrs. Gale looked outraged, but not on Belle’s behalf. She hated missing an opportunity to demonstrate her piety in front of the reverend, and few families gave her more opportunity to criticize in the name of God than the Frenches.

“I should hurry home,” Belle muttered. Frollo’s eyes appeared to remain on her face, but she still felt exposed and vulnerable before him. Facing the full force of his consideration always made her wish she’d worn ten more layers. “I always recite the highlights of your sermon to Papa. It does ease his pain.”

Frollo cocked an eyebrow. “I dislike the idea that a woman, and such a fanciful one as you, should be the vessel by which your father receives the word of God.”

Belle could tell it took serious effort for Mrs. Blue and Mrs. Gale not to break into Cheshire grins as Frollo chastised her. It cost just as much and perhaps a bit more not to reply with her own rebuke. But challenging Frollo’s sexism and vanity, while briefly satisfying, had no benefits.

“Perhaps,” Frollo continued, “I should pay a visit to your cottage sometime during the coming week.”

Now Mrs. Blue’s and Mrs. Gale’s dour expressions were genuine. “Reverend,” Mrs. Gale began, “that reminds me. Hiram and I would love to have you for dinner some night this week. Our Dorothy would join us, of course…”

Mrs. Blue opened her mouth to proffer her own invitation to supper, but Frollo’s examination of Belle didn’t waver. “Go then, Isabelle. A child’s duty is to their father.”

“Thank you, Reverend,” Belle said. Gods, the man never seemed to blink. “I’ll let Papa know about your concerns.”

“I hope to see him beside you in the pews next Sunday,” Frollo said. “These are dire times, Isabelle, and we are all in need of guidance.”

Everyone except you, Belle thought. She forced herself to smile. “Of course, Reverend.” She inclined her head to Mrs. Blue and Mrs. Gale. “Have a lovely afternoon,” she murmured before turning and making her escape. Frollo’s stare felt like a brand pressed between her shoulder blades until long after she’d departed his company.


	2. In pain, in need

Instead of walking back to town, Belle flew. She started out at a light jog and, as momentum came to her aide, picked up speed as she raced down the hill. Her hair whipped her face and flew like a proud flare behind her; her feet barely touched the ground.

Avonlea’s founders built their house of worship at the summit of the island’s only peak believing that the four-odd kilometer trek up a steep incline would promote piety. They never dreamed of giving young women with sharp imaginations and robust senses of adventure a moment of absolute daring.  

Belle shot past the Tillmans, returning Greta’s and Hans’ whoops with a cry of her own. She spread her arms behind her and, as her velocity became break neck, closed her eyes. The weight of her worries fell from her, and for a moment she imagined that this island, with its rigidity and its clearly defined borders, could sustain her for the rest of her life.

“For the love of God, Belle!”  

Ruby Lucas’s cry returned Belle to herself. She opened her eyes and saw that she’d veered from her path and was headed straight for a small outcrop. At the last moment she managed to correct her course and turned to the side.  

With a yelp, she managed to slam her feet into the dusty grass lining the path. Her ankles and knees protested her sudden stop, but she slid to a halt without falling over or inflicting injury upon herself. Above her, Ruby and her grandmother had also left them path and were coming to her aid.  

“I’m fine,” Belle called to them. “I just got carried away.”

“That seems to be your answer to everything,” Granny called to her, but her tone and her smile removed any sting from her comment. Grace Anne Lucas, an island matriarch, had been called Granny long before her beloved granddaughter’s birth and, as one of Avonlea’s few female business owners, wore the moniker with pride. “One of these days you’re going to make a leap and leave gravity behind forever.”

“That’s the idea,” Belle said breathlessly. At that moment, she felt all too aware of gravity’s grip upon her. It wrapped itself around her ankles and bound her to Avonlea and its traditions.  

“We should’ve waited for you,” Ruby replied, her features twisted in guilt. “We left you alone up there— with him—”

“I’m fine,” Belle assured her friend. It unnerved her that Ruby and Granny were as alarmed by Frollo’s attentions as she was. It gave her misgivings an uncomfortable weight. “He wanted to know where Papa was.”

Granny clucked. “I can talk to Maurice,” she said. “If he knew what going to church alone was like for you, I’m sure he’d change his tune.”

Belle shook her head fiercely. “No! No. Papa can barely stomach seeing the church, much less the reverend. If he thought Frollo was behaving…” She couldn’t voice the words aloud. “If he thought the reverend was bothering me, he might do something rash.”  

Granny looked unconvinced, but Ruby spoke before her grandmother could muster a retort. She lowered her voice, although the Tillmans were still a good ways up the hill and they weren’t near any other parties. “I panicked, Belle. When he talked about _unnatural fornicators_ —”  

“Oh, Rubes,” Belle murmured, drawing her friend into a hug. “You know he’s wrong. Nothing about the drought or the locusts is your fault.”

“Damn straight,” Granny growled.  

“That’s not what worries me,” Ruby confided, glancing up the hill to the church and the stream of island residents picking their way down the dirt path. “People are angry, Belle. They’re scared and hungry and need someone to blame. If Frollo found out about Dorothy, he could make examples out of us.”

The notion sent a shiver down Belle’s spine. Frollo alone exerted enough influence to make life on Avonlea difficult for those who stepped outside his purview. If the island’s residents added their anger to the mix, it could be enough to drive her friends to the mainland. Dorothy would never take over her Uncle Henry’s farm, and Ruby wouldn’t inherit Granny’s Diner. She didn’t know what made her angrier: Frollo’s prejudices or her own inability to stand up to them.  

“I won’t let that happen,” Belle promised. She nodded to Granny. “We won’t let that happen. I swear, Rubes. People are always better than we believe.” Her voice lacked conviction, and her companions knew it.  

“In my experience,” Ruby muttered, “they’re considerably worse.”

* * *

Belle’s journey home took her through the forest. Ruby and Granny invited her to lunch at the diner, but she begged off. She itched to arrive back at the cottage and see her father. When the trees began to thin and the symphony created by dozens of chimes reached her ears, when she smelled tangy salt air and felt a breeze stir her skirts, a tightness in Belle’s chest loosened.

Frollo held no sway here. She was retracing the steps of her ancestors, and for a brief time, she could feel safe again.

Belle found Maurice on their porch, securing a chime made from seashells and small balls of glass that’d washed ashore to a wooden beam. He whistled merrily, the perfect picture of health, and his ruddy face broke into a grin when he saw his daughter approaching.

“Bluebell! Sweetheart! Can you spare a minute to give your old man a hand?”  

Maurice’s gladness was infectious, and Belle felt a genuine smile bloom across her face. “Depends what he wants,” she replied in a joking tone.

Her father whistled disbelievingly. “A few hours on the hill and she’s already turned mercurial. Isn’t that windbag supposed to preach about morals? Like honor thy father?” Belle’s smile flickered at the mention of Frollo, and Maurice’s own expression darkened. “Belle, what’s the matter? Did something happen at church?”

“You shouldn’t speak about the reverend like that,” Belle said stonily.  

Maurice’s frown deepened. “You’re right. Windbag is too good a word for the likes of him. Really he’s a—”

“Papa! Please!” Belle glanced furtively back towards the forest. She was certain no one had followed her home, but if the likes of Mrs. Gale ever overheard him – Ruby’s tight, anxious countenance swam in her mind.  

He could make examples of us.

“I’d do anything for you, Belle,” Maurice declared. “I’d walk through fire. I’d descend to the deepest pits of Hell. But I won’t stand here and pretend that son of a bitch has any familiarity with the Lord.”

“I’m not asking you to respect him or even tolerate him,” Belle said, coming closer to the cottage. “But Papa, you hardly go into town anymore. Things are changing. People are angry, and that’s made the reverend powerful.”

“Good men don’t consolidate their power by taking advantage of unrest,” Maurice said darkly.  

“I never said he was a good man,” Belle shot back. “Just that he’s not one to cross.”

The furrow between Maurice’s brows lessened as he took a step off the porch and closer to her. “Bluebell, is something the matter? Something to do with Frollo?”

They so rarely spoke the man’s name aloud at home that its utterance shocked Belle. For a moment, she considered confiding her worries about Frollo to her father.  

_He watches me, Papa, everywhere I go. His gaze makes my skin crawl, and when I force myself to look into his eyes, I see nothing holy. More and more I wonder what a so-called pious man would do to the personification of his temptation, and the answers are never ones that allow me to sleep peacefully at night. This island feels like a pile of kindling, and I don’t want to be the match that lights that fire._

But as much as Belle adored her father, she barely admitted those feelings to herself. So she forced herself to smile and shake her head. “No, Papa. It’s nothing like that. I’m just on edge is all.”

Maurice continued to scrutinize her, and Belle struggled to maintain her pretense. “You can tell me anything, Belle.”

_I know, Papa. But I can’t control what you’d do after I told you, and that frightens me too._

Changing the subject would be an obvious diversion and would only delay this conversation, not put it to rest. But Belle felt lightyears away from the woman who’d soared down the back of a cliff, and at the moment she only cared about buying herself time.

“You think a storm’s coming?” she asked, gesturing to the chimes.

Bless him, her father set aside his anger and misgivings in nodded. In a moment he wore a grin as forced as hers, but Belle saw the effort he put into making it real. “Yeah. A dry one. Plenty of wind and thunder and lightning but,” Maurice said, jerking his head to the sky above, “no rain.” He paused. “I might not leave the cove that often, Bluebell, but I do know how badly we need the rain.”

Belle nodded. “I know, Papa.”  

“I’ve lived my whole life on this island,” Maurice continued, “and I’ve never seen things get this bad. And if that man is digging his claws into this island even more because of these troubles, then I’m partly to blame, for not standing up to him.”

“Papa, no,” Belle sighed. She reached him and wrapped her arms around his burly frame. “There’s no point.”

“There’s always a point, Belle,” Maurice disagreed. “When the stakes are between good and evil, there’s always a point. Do the brave thing—”

“And the brave thing will follow,” Belle finished. It’d been ages since they’d spoken of her mother, and although Colette’s name hadn’t been uttered, speaking the words by which she’d lived her life out loud felt as powerful as a spell.  

“Let’s go inside, Belle,” Maurice said. “Let your old man fix you some lunch.”

“I’ll be inside in a moment, Papa,” Belle promised.

Maurice considered her for another moment before nodding and moving into the cottage. “You know where to find me, Bluebell,” he said.

When the sound of his footsteps faded, Belle wet her finger and held it up. The wind blew from east. She turned in that direction and stared across the ocean to the horizon. She couldn’t see the storm her father expected, but, as air heavy with static and tumult pressed down upon her, she thought she could feel its approach in her bones.  


	3. It’s she who holds her tongue who gets a man

The tempest roared in from the east and threw itself upon the island shortly after eight in the evening.

The weathervane on the top of Henry Gale’s farm whipped about so violently that his wife Emeline worried it would snap off and disappear into heart of the storm. Upstairs, their niece Dorothy drew her Ruby Lucas to her.

“You better stay the night,” Dorothy whispered against her lover’s hair. “A wind like this one would take one look at you and keep you for herself.”

Ruby laughed. “Storms are women, are they?”

“The really spectacular ones are,” Dorothy replied.

Several miles away, in the stately home provided to the reverend of Avonlea, Claude Frollo sat at the head of his expansive dining room table. His muscles ached, and he fought to keep his thoughts pure. But whenever he closed his eyes, whenever he took a sip of the fine merlot that Mrs. Mills had given to him, he remembered watching Belle French shooting down the hillside.

Her arms outstretched, like an angel’s. The hem of her skirt flying up, exposing the backs of her thighs, like an entirely different kind of woman.  

He paid little mind to the wail of the storm outside.

When God chose to demonstrate the extent of his wrath, Frollo was never his intended audience.

In the cottage she shared with her father, Belle begged off continuing their nightly game of Monopoly. “Cramps,” she explained, and Maurice’s face flushed as he hastily bid Belle goodnight.

“Sleep well, Bluebell,” he called after her as she ascended the stairs to her bedroom.

Instead of crawling into bed, however, Belle opened one of the bay windows and folded her arms upon the sill. She’d have given almost anything to feel cool rain lashing at her bare arms and running down her cheeks. Dry thunderstorms always left her wanting something – _more_.

But the wind felt nice, and after a time, she fell asleep in that position: legs folded beneath her, face turned into the rage of a nor'easter, her skin drawn too tight and her restless mind no closer to finding peace.

* * *

Maurice’s bellows awoke her the next morning, and at first, Belle wasn’t alarmed. Her father’s cries often woke her. Maurice was a man of exceeding passion, and he raised his voice for all manner of reasons, very few of them actual causes for alarm. When she awoke, her more immediate concern was to ease the ache in her shoulders and to return blood flow to her cramped legs.

Her father’s cries came from outside, somewhere down the beach. Maybe he’d forgotten to bring the wash in yesterday and his shirts had scattered all over the cove. It wasn’t until Belle heard a second man’s voice, this one fierce and furious, that she realized her father was _arguing_ with someone.

Belle’s heart stuttered in her chest. She remembered Frollo’s threat of a visit from the day before.

_Papa, Gods, no!_

Though her legs protested her sudden movement, she launched herself from her position on the floor and practically tumbled down the stairs. Her left ankle rolled, and once Belle calmed herself enough to feel pain, she knew she’d regret _that_ quite a bit.

Pure adrenaline fueled her flight from the cottage and through the clearing that separated her home from the cove. Twigs and sharp rocks pricked her feet; Belle stumbled and caught herself on the sharp edge of a log.

_Please, let this be something I can fix!_

Belle landed on the beach, teeth gritted against the rising pain in her feet and hands, and stopped dead in her tracks. Nothing could have prepared her for what she discovered on the beach. Ten meters away, just beyond the place where rocks and pebbles gave way to smooth sand, her father had his arms locked around – there was no other word for it.

Maurice, for purposes Belle couldn’t begin to guess, was using all of his considerable strength to wrestle a mermaid up the beach. He cried out when the mermaid managed to sink his sharp, crooked teeth into the flesh of Maurice’s palm.

“I’M! TRYING! TO! SAVE! YOU!” Maurice wailed, tearing his hand from the mermaid’s mouth.

“FUCK! OFF! YOU! DOSS! CUNT!” the mermaid snarled, twisting his neck to snap at Maurice’s neck.  

“YOU! NEED! MEDICAL! ATTENTION!” Maurice retorted.

“NO! I! FUCKING! DINNAE!”

“What in the bleeding _hell_?” Belle demanded, bringing the fight to a screeching halt.

Maurice looked up at his daughter, bewildered and panting. “Bluebell, fetch my first aid kit!” he barked. “This fellow’s got a nasty gash on his tail!”

Given that the mermaid obviously fancied himself a real hard man, his tail was surprisingly delicate. Like his human properties, the tail was slender but powerfully built: gleaming red scales, flecked with striations of silver, starting just below his navel and stretching downwards, almost two meters, tipped off with powerful fins several shades darker than the rest of his tail. Two more fins, sprouted from just below where, as a man, his knees would’ve been.

The mermaid recovered himself quickly and lunged from Maurice’s grasp, finally breaking free. He struggled to reach the water, but instead of using his tail to propel himself along, the mermaid dragged himself in fits and bursts with his arms. Each time his tail bumped against the sand, he let loose a litany of curses, and it took scant moments for Maurice to catch him again.

“Belle! Help me! He’s getting away!” Maurice crowed.

“I dinnae want your help, you fucking bastard!” the mermaid roared. He glared at Belle, his eyes wild and – Belle saw – frightened. She took a step closer and winced as she put weight on the ankle she’d tweaked. “Come closer,” he growled, “and I’ll gut your da with my bare teeth.”

“You’re a mermaid,” Belle said at last.

As introductions went, it felt woefully inadequate, but she couldn’t summon much beyond a simple declarative sentence. It occurred to her that she’d been knocked unconscious during the storm the night before and was now in the throes of a wild hallucination.

“I’m a fucking merman,” he spat, “but if you don’t believe me, I can bloody prove it.”

“Not if you fancy keeping your tackle and bait,” Maurice growled.

Belle ignored the merman’s bravado and her father’s threat, creeping closer to him. She never injured herself in her dreams, and from the persistent throb in her ankle, she knew she’d done herself some temporary damage. But were concussion-related hallucinations governed by the same rules as dreams?

“Belle, if we work together, we can bring him back to the cottage and bandage him up,” Maurice said.

“I’m not a fucking wounded bird,” the merman snapped. The closer Belle drew, the more agitated he become. “I’m warning you!”

Finally, Belle reached the pair and knelt beside them. She took her first decent look at the merman’s face and discovered something even more surprising than his scarlet tail: his apparent youth.

His eyes were wide set and dark, dark brown. His nose was as sharp as the rest of him and a wee bit crooked. His lips were thin and brightly pink. He looked tough, and he looked weary, too.   
  


“You’re younger than I am,” she said softly.

“Aye, but twice as hard,” he replied.

That much was true. Scars littered his torso and arms: some thin and short but others jagged and deep. She realized, with a start, the the silver striations scattered across his tail were gashes where hunks of flesh had been torn away and never regrown. Life on the island had grown increasingly difficult over the past year, but the evidence of the battles the merman had won and lost reminded Belle that there were much different types of struggle than her own.

“His tail, Belle. Right below – the place where his knees would be?” Maurice’s voice sounded strained, although the merman no longer struggled in her grasp.

Once Belle knew where to look, it wasn’t difficult to find the wound. The merman’s blood was darker and thicker than her own would be, and it trickled from a thick twenty-or-so centimeter slice in his scales.

“That must hurt,” Belle observed.

“Life hurts, sweetness,” the merman replied.

“Papa, let him go,” Belle commanded.

“What? Belle, no!” Maurice sputtered.

Belle stood and winced. “If you haven’t noticed, I need medical attention myself. We can’t do anything for him. Let him go.”

“But, Belle! He’s injured! He’ll die if we don’t help him!” Maurice protested.

“He can fucking understand you, you old bastart, so you’d better start speaking to _him_ directly again.”

The merman’s tone was flinty, still guarded and tight, but Belle could tell – _she’d piqued his curiosity_. He was intelligent enough to sense a trap when one was set but also inquisitive to the point where he’d endure a few more moments on land to see where she’d lead him.

Belle turned way from her father and the merman. “He’s not _strong_ enough for the medicine we’ve got.”

A chuckle, pitched low and meant to be condescending, rumbled out of the merman’s mouth. “And what the fuck is this? Some Tom Sawyer mind fuck bullshit?”

Belle paused. “I’d be interested to know where a merman learns about Tom Sawyer, but since you’d much rather be on your way, chalk this up to one more of the universe’s mysteries.”

The merman didn’t reply immediately, and Belle wondered if she’d made a miscalculation. When she’d walked a few more paces, she heard him ask, “I’m not making any promises, but what exactly did you have in mind?”

Belle whirled to face him, barely registering her sore ankle. “The way we always handle our problems. With fire.”  


	4. And do I help them? Yes, indeed.

Smoke curled upwards in pretty ringlets from the fire Belle had set upon the beach, but she didn’t worry that any of the islanders would see it and come investigating. The cottage and the cove were as isolated as one could get on Avonlea, and they hadn’t had a visitor in months.

_But you might, soon._

Belle suppressed thoughts of Frollo and focused at the task at hand. At first the fire had been a gimmick, a bluff to calm the merman and convince him to stop fighting her father. But after she’d explained her plan to him, his chest puffed out and his lips quirked into a cocky, self-sure grin.

“Have at it, sweetness.”

During the time it’d taken to fetch the kindling and firewood, the knife and the hydrogen peroxide, lighter fluid and all, she’d begun to consider the peculiar creature stretched before her. He hadn’t offered a name and, unsure of underwater customs, Belle couldn’t find the nerve to ask for one. He possessed an obviously sharp intellect, making cultural and literary references almost as often as he cursed.

And – most curious of all – he spoke with a distinctive Glaswegian. It surprised Belle that they spoke the same language with the same familiar cadences below water as above. She wondered whether mermaids and mermen born off the coast of China spoke Mandarin, whether merfolk from Australia sounded different than those from Nova Scotia.

“You’ve got questions,” the merman observed. Since Belle had convinced Maurice to let him go, he’d become slightly less threatening, although he still behaved like a wild animal, liable to bolt at any second.

“You can hardly blame me,” Belle said, listening to the crackle of the fire. They’d a few moments to go before the embers would grow hot enough for her purposes.

Maurice sat beside them, but unlike Belle, his curiosity was focused entirely on the merman’s tail. He had more class than to gape openly, but she could tell from the set of her father’s jaw and the tenseness in his shoulders that it took some effort.

“Most twats would’ve called the military or a television studio before tending to that fucking gash,” the merman said. “I woke up to this one taking fucking liberties with me.” He jerked his head towards Maurice.

“I was trying to resuscitate you,” Maurice said sheepishly. “Mouth to mouth. You quickly disabused me of that attempt.”

The merman snorted. “And I would fucking do it again, ken?”

“No one here is going to come near your mouth,” Maurice muttered.

To her consternation, suddenly Belle could think of nothing else. The merman seemed to intuit that and bared his teeth at her. After a moment, Belle realized it was his attempt at a leer.

“You’re Scottish,” she said at last.

“Aye, and what gave you that fucking notion, hen?”

“I didn’t know mermaids could be Scottish,” Belle replied. “And you’ve read Mark Twain –”

“Bored me to fucking tears,” the merman interrupted. “But it’s not like I can waltz into Foyles whenever I please.”

“We know more about outer space than we do the floor of the ocean,” Belle continued, unperturbed by the derision in her voice. “It’s this massive, inaccessible place, totally inhospitable to human exploration, and yet _you live there_.”

A notion occurred to her, and she scrutinized the merman’s flank and neck until he mashed his teeth at her to stop.

“Do you have gills?” Belle asked excited. “Or have your lungs evolved to allow you to breath underwater and above water?”

“Maybe he has a blow hole,” Maurice commented.

“I dinnae have a fucking blow hole,” the merman snapped. He glared at Belle. “The workings of my biology are none of your fucking business.”

Belle blushed. “You’re right. That was rude. It’s just that you’re the first new person I’ve met in ages, and you’re not even a person.” Her face flamed even brighter when she realized what she’d said. “I didn’t mean you’re not a _person_ ,” she stammered. “I’m sorry. I’m handling this like a complete prat.”

The merman shifted, letting his tail stretch. He shuddered as he pulled his wound and caused it to bleed more. “You’re not as bad as the sort of cunt who’d ship me off to a zoo or an aquarium or a fucking testing facility.”

“We’d never,” Belle swore, pressing her hand to her chest.

“That’s what you say now, but a specimen like me would fetch a fucking fortune.”

Maurice snorted. “Proud of ourselves, are we?”

The merman’s rich brown eyes flickered, and Belle thought, _No, he’s absolutely not_. She’d suspected it for some time, but the look, gone as quickly as it’d come, had convinced her. _He thinks the worst of himself. He doesn’t believe us when we say we wouldn’t sell him out_.

“We’re not that kind of people,” Belle promised again.

“You’re all _that kind_ of people, when your backs are against the wall,” the merman muttered.

“I think the coals are hot enough,” Maurice said. He nodded to Belle. “You’re certain about this, Bluebell?”

Belle locked gazes with the merman. “I am if you are,” she said.

“Do you see me fucking shaking?” the merman asked evenly.

Belle handed the knife to her father. “Lay it right there, where it’s hottest,” she told him, pointing to a spot in the fire. “I’ll clean the wound.” She grabbed the hydrogen peroxide and the flannel she’d nicked from a drawer in her bathroom. “This will sting.”

The merman shrugged, but Belle saw how the muscles of his shoulder bunched together tensely. Was it the pain he feared or the act of being cared for?

She doused the flannel in hydrogen peroxide and, as gently as she could, began to clean the clotted blood and debris from the wound on his tail. The merman sucked hard against his teeth when Belle first made contact with him, but although he never relaxed, he didn’t flinch either.

“It’d go quicker, sweetness, if you just scraped it all away,” he told her.

“It’d also hurt like a fucking bitch,” Belle retorted.

The merman stared at her for a moment before turning to Maurice. “Does she get that filthy mouth from you?”

Maurice withdrew the knife from the flames, wincing as his hand drew to close to the heat. “I wish she did, but her mother cursed like a sailor. By the time Belle was ten, she knew how to use fuck as an adjective, a verb, and a noun.”

“Although she hardly ever does,” Belle retorted.

“When she does, she makes her old man proud.” Maurice extended the knife carefully, so that Belle could grasp it by the handle and not the blade. “Do it quickly, Bluebell.”

Satisfied that she’d cleaned the merman’s wound as much as possible, Belle took the knife from her father. “On the count of three,” she promised. The merman nodded. “One, two, three.”

Smoke might not have piqued their neighbors’ interest, but Belle was willing to bet the howl the merman gave during the cauterization would. The cry seemed to surprise even _him_. When Belle removed the knife from the wound and tossed it into the water to cool, a new silver scar shimmered in its place.

“What the fuck was that shite?” the merman demanded. “I thought you were going to do it on fucking two!”

“When I give my word, I keep it,” Belle replied. “Does it – seem healed to you?”

The merman glared darkly at the new scar. “Aye. It’ll do.”

“Then we’re done here. You can be on your way.” Belle stood and staggered as she put weight on her bad ankle again. Maurice leapt to his feet and caught her before she fell. “Unless you want to stay for tea.”

The merman gave a mirthless chuckle. “Rethinking your decision to keep me as a pet?” he asked.

Belle offered him a tight smile. “Like I said. My word is my bond. We won’t call a television station or Her Majesty’s fleet.”

“Even if we did, they’d think we were typical island punters,” Maurice added. “We’re a law unto ourselves out here.”

Before, the merman’s return to the water had been propelled by his arms in jerky, uncoordinated movements. With his tail’s faculties restored, the merman easily launched himself from the beach into the water.   
  
“His skeleton would be fascinating to study,” Maurice murmured to Belle.

“I fucking heard that!” The merman used his tail to push himself deeper into the water and then dove. The sun flashed off of his fins, and he was gone.

Long moments passed. Belle’s heart sank as she realized the most magical thing that ever happened to her had ended with nary a goodbye. A breeze blew off the water, and the merman’s head popped out of the water just as the chimes on their porch stirred.

“What’s that fucking racket?” he called.

Belle couldn’t suppress the laugh that bubbled from her chest. “Chimes. They were my mothers. We made them out of everything. Seashells, forks and spoons. We used glass balls we found on the beach to make my favorites, but those hardly ever wash ashore anymore—”

The merman dove again. Belle doubted he would return. She cupped her hands around her mouth and hollered as loud as she could, not caring who heard her, _“What’s your name?”_

“He’s gone, Bluebell.” Maurice placed a gentling hand on her shoulder. “Hell, it’s hard to believe he was ever here. Damn, where did that knife go?”

Belle stared out at the ocean and ached. A great brilliant secret had been revealed to her, and as quickly as it appeared, it’d been snatched away. Once again she was a lonely young woman stuck on a failing island with the sort of worries that could break a person.

 _This is your life_ , she thought. _Get used to it_.

* * *

Belle didn’t return to the beach for several days, so she might have missed his first message and his second.

When she managed to shake off the malaise she’d felt since the merman’s disappearance she spent her time fretting that ever twig-snap in the woods heralded Frollo’s approach.

When she ventured into town to visit Ruby, the colors of the buildings seemed blander. She had to leave notes to herself for herself to remember to eat. The merman would laugh in her face if he knew how Belle thought of him now: like a siren from tales of old.

On the fifth morning, while standing in the clearing that lead to the beach, an unfamiliar glimmer caught her eye. Her ankle no longer twanged when she set her weight upon it, so she moved swiftly down the embankment and to the place on the beach where she’d seen the glint.

A pile of glass balls, worn dull by the sea, sat in a neat pile by the edge of the tide. Belle gasped. He couldn’t have left the gift too long before, or the swiftly rising tide would’ve carried them out to sea.

Just below the offering he’d written something in the sand.

##  _NOSTY_


	5. And I fortunately know a little magic

“Isabelle.” Frollo drawled her name, a summons, a command.

Belle’s stomach clenched, but she crossed the street to go to him. He stared down at her, and though his deep set eyes remained locked with hers, his gaze upon her felt brazen and hungry.

“Reverend,” she said in a tone she hoped Frollo found demure. “Good morning.”

“It’s afternoon, Isabelle. Or have you lain abed all morning, idling the hours away?”

Belle flushed. She had risen late that morning, and now the sunny moments she’d spent coming awake felt tainted by Frollo’s censure.

“Not many young women on Avonlea have the luxury of sleeping past sunrise,” Frollo observed. “I was told that Dorothy Gale has spent most of her nights these past weeks trying to keep her uncle’s cattle alive.”

Now Belle felt ashamed. Her father’s mother had come from mainland money, and Belle’s small inheritance meant she and her father staved off ruination better than most. On Avonlea, only one man possessed more wealth than her and Maurice; and he had the audacity to stand before Belle and shame her.

“That’s true,” she managed at last. Henry Gale and Dorothy were down to a handful of heifers and three stubborn bulls, and she knew Dorothy would work herself sick before losing another of her herd.

“It puzzles me, then, that a young woman with so many blessings would not come to church on Sunday and gives thanks to the Lord for them.” Frollo stared down his pinched nose at Belle. “I expect this from your father, Isabelle. But not from you.”

Belle schooled her features into a mask of repentance. At any moment she feared she would lose her tenuous grip on the corners of her mouth and that she’d break into the radiant grin she’d been wearing ever since Nosty’s visit the day before.

“It’s a fucking rock,” he’d snapped after depositing the gift at Belle’s waiting feet.

The pair had fallen into a habit of exchanging small tokens from their world: _Wuthering Heights_ for Nosty (“Heathcliff is a big a cunt as their ever was,” Nosty pontificated, “even bigger than that fucking twat Huck Finn.”), a knife carved from whale bone for Belle (“You’ll nae be branding me again, Sweetness, and don’t look so bleeding chuffed, because I have about dozens of them.”), a pair of inflatable floaters from Maurice (“Get to fuck, you manky bastart!” Nosty had bellowed, throwing up to V’s in the direction of the cottage.) – but with this latest gift, Nosty had outdone himself.

“It’s not a rock!” Belle squealed, staring done at the petrified object cradled in her palms. “It’s a fossil. Bloody hell, Nosty, I can see its  _teeth_.”

Nosty snorted and thrashed his tail in the water. He wouldn’t admit his pleasure at her reaction, but Belle could tell from how his boney chest puffed out how proud he felt as this success.

“Aye, well, if you hadn’t liked it I’d have shucked it at your da the next time we came near enough.”

“Just admit it,” Belle said with a grin. “You took the time to bring me a lovely gift. You were  _thoughtful_.”

Not even the merman’s litany of curse-laden protests had dampened Belle’s mood. She’d spent the morning reading aloud from  _Oliver_ Twist while Nosty spent the morning sunning himself on the beach and mock-snoring whenever she caught him listening to her. He disappeared into the water after Nancy’s murder, and it’d been Belle’s dearest ambition to read the rest of the Dickens masterpiece to him – until Frollo’s calculating rebuke reminded her that she’d skipped church altogether.

“I felt ill,” Belle lied, dropping her gaze to Frollo’s feet. “It won’t happen again. I promise.”

When Frollo slid a long, cold finger under her chin and tilted her head upwards so he could stare into her eyes again, Belle shuddered involuntarily.

“You’re a good woman, Isabelle,” he said, close enough that his breath puffed against her cheeks. “It pains me to see how pride can corrupt even the purest soul.”  
  
“Reverend?” Belle’s voice shook.

“I do not take kindly to lies, Isabelle. I disdain liars even more.” Frollo’s chapped lips tugged into a mercurial smirk. He removed his finger from her chin and stepped back. “If I believe you have strayed from God’s righteous path, Isabelle, I will have no choice but to guide you back.”

“I’m not sure I understand, Reverend,” Belle muttered. She fought against the notion that her face, that patch of skin where Frollo touched her without her permission, no longer belonged to her.

Frollo stared at her. This time, his eyes strayed downward for a fraction of a second, taking in her bare shoulders and the skin exposed by the low neckline of her dress. “Your tan makes you even more beautiful, Isabelle.”

As soon as Belle’s legs would move again, she fled from town. She raced through the forest and did not stop when branches whipped against her face. Her thighs burned, her lungs fought to keep up with the pace she’d set, but she refused to slow down.

By the time she reached the cottage, Belle was on the verge of collapsing, but she pushed herself until she reached the water. She fell to her knees in the frigid Atlantic and buried her face in her hands. Within moments, Nosty had rocketed to her side.

“Who did this?” he asked. “Who hurt you, Belle? Tell me, and it’ll be the last thing the cunt ever fucking does.”

“That’d make _you_ feel better,” Belle snapped. “Not me. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just – I want to escape.”

“Escape what?” She could her the strain in Nosty’s voice, how hard he fought to keep his temper in check, and it warmed her.

“This island,” Belle said. “I don’t know what’s here for me anymore.”

“Why haven’t you left, sweetness?” Nosty asked. “You’re smart as a fucking whip. You can’t tell me you couldn’t make a better life for yourself somewhere else.”

Belle dug her fists into the sand. “I can’t leave Papa. And he won’t leave her.”

“Her?”

Belle withdrew her hand from the sand and pointed to the far edge of the clearing. She’d set the glass balls there several weeks ago, and they still glimmered in the sunlight. “My mum.”

Nosty’s tail beat the water once. “I’d figured as much,” he said. “That she’d – passed on.”

The unasked question hung heavily between them. _How?_

“She – it was a do it yourself sort of thing.” Belle’s stomach churned. In an even quieter voice she added, “We couldn’t have her memorial in the church, and the reverend wouldn’t let us bury her in the church’s cemetery. So Papa and I dug a hole here.”

Nosty remained silent. Belle appreciated that about him: that for all his bluster and bravado, he knew how and when to listen.

“Papa wouldn’t choose a gravestone,” Belle continued. “I don’t know if it was because he didn’t think anyone but us deserved to know her final resting place. Or if it’s because he’s still angry with her.”

“He won’t leave her,” Nosty said. “That counts for something.”

Belle’s shoulders slumped. “Most of the time, I don’t want to leave the island at all. But other times – I don’t know how I’ll make it through another day.”

Nosty shifted in the water. “I know the feeling. Like there’s a fucking weight on your chest, crushing the air from your lungs. And even if you knew where to go, you’re paralyzed, can’t move for all that your pathetic waster life is worth –” He caught himself before he finished that thought. His cheeks flamed. “Obviously I was talking about myself.”

Belle reached out and took her hand in hers. Nosty jolted as if her touch had branded him, but he didn’t turn tail and disappear under the waves. “You’re incredible, Nosty. You’re absolutely worthwhile.”

A breeze wafted between them, and a few moments later, it reached the chimes.

“She was brilliant, my mum,” Belle said, smiling softly. She kept holding Nosty’s hand. “When I was young, I was terrified of storms. So —  she started making chimes. Dozens and dozens of them. And whenever it looked like a storm might blow in, she and Papa would put them all up. She took the scariest thing in the world and turned it into a symphony.”

Silence fell between them, but to Belle, it still felt like a conversation.

“You like music?” Nosty asked after several moments of quiet deliberation.

“I love it.”

He considered her for a moment. “I could show you something, if you’ll trust me.”

Belle’s eyes widened. “Of course I trust you,” she said without hesitation.

“It’ll be cold. I might be able to keep you warm, but I’m nae sure if it’ll work like that. We’d have to – be close.” The crests of his cheeks colored prettily. Belle wondered how it’d feel to run her tongue across those patches of rouge.

“Lead the way,” Belle told him. So he wrapped his arms around her and dragged her into the depths of the Atlantic Ocean.

* * *

At first, Nosty had hesitated to press his lips to hers. But once he’d taken Belle deep enough that she could no longer see the sun and the cold cut her to her bones, she’d begun to thrash, desperate for air. So he’d put his mouth against hers and wrapped his arms around her and coaxed Belle to open her mouth –

_And suddenly, air flooded Belle’s lungs._

She gasped and nearly broke the seal their lips formed, but Nosty held her firmly, and _Gods, Belle could breath dozens of meters beneath the surface of the Atlantic_. With the air came warmth, and once Belle realized she wouldn’t die, she curled into Nosty’s arms and let him sustain her.

The salt water stung her eyes, so Belle shut them. One hand curled between her chest and Nosty’s, and she felt her heart and his hammering wildly in their chests. Each beat brought a new, fragile hope with it. Belle counted dozens before she heard _them_.

 _Whales_.

They sang to each other: long, soulful moans and loving clicks and sounds Belle had never heard before in her life. At first she heard them in the distance, their songs muted, like a song spilling from the window of a car three blocks away. But they drew closer and closer until the water around Belle and Nosty twirled them this way and that.

 _They’re swimming right past us_ , Belle thought before she lost herself in the whale songs and Nosty’s sturdy arms.

* * *

 

Belle knew before Nosty returned her to the surface that words would never be enough to explain to him how magical, how brilliant, his gift had made her feel. Then their heads burst from the ocean, and they were back in her cove, and Nosty still held her the way he had underwater.

He hadn’t remembered that their relationship was different on land that it was under the water. Belle saw his brows pucker together, and she could tell that whatever enchantment bound them together below the sea was about the break.

 _Well, fuck that_.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and drew him into a rough, needful kiss. This time, it wasn’t air Belle needed: just him.

To her delight, instead of pulling away, Nosty growled against her and took her bottom lip between his teeth. One arm crushed her to his chest, and he began maneuvering them closer to shore. As his tail beat powerfully against her legs, Belle took advantage of their closeness and explored his neck and his back and his thick, matted locks with her fingers.

Nosty broke their kiss to press his mouth against the pulse point in Belle’s neck, and a moan rumbles forth from her mouth.

“Slut!”

The word and the voice are so discordant, so out of place, that it took Belle a moment to realize what had happened. She opened her mouth to beg Nosty to carry her back under the surface, back to the whales and their wild hammering hearts – but Frollo’s next accusation frightened her so much that her mind went blank.

“Harlot. Temptress. Jezebel!” Frollo stood on the shore of the cove, and Belle had never seen him look so undone, so contemptuous and hateful. “You whore! I should have known. I should have known.”

And then his jaw went slack, and the fury in his eyes turned to revulsion. He no longer stared at Belle’s kiss swollen lips but at Nosty’s hips and what stretched below that. When Frollo turned his attention to Belle again, he once again wore the familiar expression of righteous fury.

“Your depravity knows no bounds,” he snarled. “You’ve lain with a beast, with a demon, and your wickedness has cursed us all.”  


	6. Come winds of the Caspian Sea

“I asked before who among us had invited God’s wrath,” Frollo told his congregation, “but I never imagined I would discover, personally and without a doubt, just who that deviant was.”

Belle kept her head bowed. She had a few supporters scattered throughout the church: Granny and Ruby, Dorothy and her Uncle Henry and Auntie Emeline. But when Frollo marched her in front of the congregation, she’d caught site of the hatred shining in the eyes of men and women she’d considered friends.

The intensity of their condemnation made her weak in the knees.

So instead of facing her jury, she reflected on the numerous mistakes she’d made since Frollo discovered her earlier that afternoon.

Belle should never have left the water or Nosty’s arms. She’d emerged from the water on shaky legs, desperate to placate Frollo, when he’d grabbed her by the shoulders. Nosty had snarled furiously.

“I’ll rip you to fuck, you miserable cunt!” he’d raged. “You let her go!”

But Frollo sensed Nosty’s limitations and shoved Belle further up the beach. “You will stand trial for your sins,” he snarled in her face. “Of that I have no doubt. It is up to you whether you come with me quietly or whether I return with the congregations and drag you from your home by your hair.”

Nosty shrieked, a piercing cry that no human could’ve made. “Run, Belle! Run!”

“If I return with reinforcements,” Frollo growled lowly enough that only Belle could hear him, “I will have them drag that abomination from the sea and gut it on a spear in front of you.”

Belle sobbed, and Nosty began to howl. Maurice burst from the cottage, and when he saw Frollo grasping his daughter’s arms hard enough to leave bruises, his face colored with fury.

“Papa, no!” Belle begged. She’d begun to cry in earnest, terrified at Frollo’s threat to harm Nosty. “Papa, please. I have to go. It’ll be all right, but I have to go with him.”

“Over my dead body,” Maurice spat.

“Lay a hand on me, and it will be,” Frollo retorted coldly. “Your daughter is a deviant, feckless, whore, and it is high time she answered for her sins.”

Maurice bellowed and charged. Without hesitation, Frollo grabbed a stick from the ground and swung it at Maurice’s head. Belle nearly wretched when she heard the dull _thunk_ the stick made as it made contact with her father’s skull.

Maurice collapsed to the ground. Nosty went silent. “Belle, no,” he pleaded. “Belle, we can run. I’ll protect you.”

Belle sobbed. “I’ll go,” she’d promised. “I’ll go with you. If you leave them along, I’ll do anything.”

_“Belle! Don’t leave me, Belle! Come back!”_

As Frollo led Belle into the forest, she heard Nosty thrashing in the surf.

_“No, Belle! Come back! Come back!”_

That, at least, Belle didn’t regret: giving Nosty the chance to escape. Outside the church, the wind began to howl, working itself into a fury, and the noise reminded Belle of Nosty’s anguished pleas.

“The harlot Belle French stands accused of sexual deviancy and cavorting with demonic entities,” Frollo continued.

From the back of the church, Belle heard Ruby gasp. “That’s a lie!”

“Silence!” Frollo slammed his fist onto the pulpit. He thrust an accusing finger at Belle. “Look how she has tainted us with her wickedness! Her deviancy has taken hold in our community. Your crops have failed, and your cattle have died, and this _whore_ is the cause of those miseries.”

Mrs. Gale leapt to her feet. “You bitch!” she cried. “You’ve ruined us.”

“I have no way to feed my children. We’re going to starve because of you!”  

“Slut! Whore!”

After months of despair and impotent rage, it felt delicious to scream at the harlot, to crush her spirit the way her wickedness had crushed their dreams. In the distance, lightening flashed, followed by the rumble of thunder.

“All is not lost,” Frollo orated, and his booming voice quieted the congregation. Belle heard a woman crying. She thought it might be Ruby. “The Lord visited me tonight, just before I came to stand before you. He told me how we might earn his forgiveness and mercy.”

The hairs on the back of Belle’s arm stood on end. Even as he railed against her at the cove, Frollo had never sounded this fanatical, this corrupt. Something had gone horribly wrong in him.

“It is a difficult path,” Frollo continued. “The price we must pay is great. But if we succeed, we will have pleased the Lord. And Isabelle French has left us no choice.”

Finally, Belle looked up, but not at the crowd. She turned to Frollo and saw hellfire in his eyes.

 _Oh, Gods, no_.

“Isabelle will be our sacrifice.”

* * *

The wind carried Ruby’s wails and Dorothy’s cries to Belle and then threw them back into the night. Strong men held them and their families immobile, far back from the edge of the cliff where the congregation had moved. No one paid mind to the storm, least of all Frollo.

Frollo himself had wrapped her in heavy chains. He’d taken pleasure in her fear. “Heed me, Isabelle. You stand upon the edge of the abyss. But even now, I can save you from the agony of this world and the next.”

Some of the congregants bore torches, and the firelight danced across Frollo’s face. For the first time Belle could remember, he didn’t bother to hide his lust or excitement.

Without hesitation, Belle spat.

“She refuses to repent,” Frollo roared, and the congregants echoed his fury. “And for her sins, she will be cast into the ocean to drown.”

“Have you all lost your minds?” cried Henry Gale. “She’s just a girl!”

“Goodbye, Isabelle,” murmured Frollo, grabbing her and preparing to shove her over the cliff’s edge.

“Goodbye,” she whispered.

Until the moment itself, Belle hadn’t been sure her plan would work. Frollo had bound her arms tightly to her chest, but her hands were free. When the reverend leaned close one final time, she grabbed as much of his robe as she could. Twisting with all of her might, she pitched them both over the edge of the cliff.

* * *

_A dying man’s scream. An explosion of pain. And being dragged down, down, down._

_Belle’s been this deep before, but she hadn’t remembered it being this cold. Her lungs were on fire. She needed air, and she needed sleep, and she needed a pair of strong arms wrapped around her to remind her she wasn’t almost in the pitch black dark._

_A woman appears before her: a queen or perhaps a goddess. Beautiful of face, with eight long, winding tentacles that never seem to rest._

You’re interesting.

_The woman doesn’t speak. But her voice is heard nonetheless._

And you’re brave. Pure hearted. Kind. I want to save you, but it’s been a long time since I’ve tried something like this. It’s going to hurt. A lot.

 _The woman’s voice grows fuzzy as Belle gently begins losing consciousness. Whatever the woman has to offer, it can’t be any worse than what she’s already been through_.

That’s true.

 _Belle screams as the chains slip from her and the stops sinking. She would swim to the surface, but her legs are on fire. She flails helplessly as her bones crunch together, changing their shape and density. Her spine crackles as it elongates._  

I told you this was going to hurt.

_The woman smiles._

I think we’ll meet again someday. Maybe. I hope so.

_The woman floats away. Belle’s vision is fading to black, and not even the pain can keep her conscious._

* * *

The world to which Belle awakens is unlike anything she’s ever seen. Before, the salt water stung her eyes, and she could barely see her hand in front of her face. But now she can see far into the distance and in vivid detail.

_And Gods, she can breathe._

She looks down at her legs and is not as surprised as she should be to find a tail, rich blue and shimmering.

Belle knows she will need to find her father and let him know she’s alive. Her mind will demand that she finds an explanation for this transformation. And she will need to process her feelings about Frollo and his death.

But first thing’s first. She needs to find Nosty. They have a kiss to finish.

##  **_FIN_ **


End file.
